


stupid.

by heartshapedcookie



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: M/M, a whisper of self harm/suicide, hopeful ending though, mentions of depression, mentions of disordered eating, meremy, partially deaf jeremy, pre-established college age don't expect much meremy, things get bad but they always get better again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 23:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16005116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartshapedcookie/pseuds/heartshapedcookie
Summary: Jeremy's out of bed. That's the first step.





	stupid.

**Author's Note:**

> *snap* yep!! this one's going in my cringe compilation!!

A spoonful of peanut butter is not a sufficient meal. This much he knows.

 

He’s standing in the middle of his dorm room, blinking furiously against the hot, numbing vertigo swelling behind his eyes. Everything is in delirious motion for a dizzying second before the carpet feels steady beneath his feet again; he rests a hand against his roommate’s bed, trying to orient himself. Blood thunders behind his useless ear drums. 

 

Finally, he can stand without stars streaking across his field of vision and fuzzy numbness pooling in his legs. He doesn’t want to think about how long he’s been in bed—what matters is he’s out. And the communal peanut butter jar he and his roommate share is sitting on the mini-fridge and a spoonful of peanut butter is not a sufficient meal—this much he knows—but it’s protein and he remembers from Biology 201 that the body is composed of overwhelmingly intricate protein complexes, the body is a flexible pile of amino acids, and doesn’t it make sense to have some protein?

 

_ Proteins are filling,  _ someone’s voice—Chloe? There’s a silvery glint to it—lectures hollowly in his head.  _ Why do you think actors are always hawking the Atkins Diet? _

 

He doesn’t remember when he ate last. The oversized Ghostbusters tee-shirt he’s wearing feels too lived-in, and his curls are tumbled and sticky with pillow sweat. It may be Saturday. Hunger feels distant, shadowy, like something in a foreboding dream that he’s dimly aware of but cannot totally visualize. Did Chloe do the Atkins Diet? Is that why she always had those bars in her purse?

 

A new weakness in his knees and he realizes he’s been standing motionless for nearly ten minutes now, staring blankly at the peanut butter jar. He thinks that maybe peanut butter is the wrong idea, that he’s out of bed and he should shove himself into his closet to put on jeans and he should walk to the union for a real meal and he should go to the administration building to pick up his credit permission form and he should go to Michael’s room because he’s been an inordinately shitty boyfriend lately and he should climb out of this deep, dark well because if he treads water for any longer, he’ll start to drown.

 

_ This is stupid,  _ he thinks cruelly. He would say it out loud, but he doesn’t have his hearing aids in and his voice sounds so skin-crawingly awful without them. 

 

Jeremy twists the cap off of the jar with vindictive force. He takes a plastic spoon from the box of assorted cutlery next to his roommate’s tub of oatmeal and jams it into the peanut butter, trying not to be disgusted by its unctuous sheen. Everything seems off: once appealing textures appear insidious, once inviting sensations repulsive. He feels too hot now that he’s out of bed and his ears are aching faintly and all he has to do is just fucking  _ eat  _ something, he just has to start, he has to start somewhere.

 

He doesn’t hear Michael knocking. It’s his own fault: every time he’s looked at his phone for the past few days, his eyes have watered and his brain has flared with static. Texting anyone has been physically impossible, but he still owes Michael something, even something as punchy and terrifyingly effective as  _ its happening again.  _ Suddenly dropping off of the grid is not acceptable, not for someone like him. 

 

When he glances up from the spoon clutched in his trembling hand, Michael is standing in the doorway. He smiles and the way his eyes soften—with relief, not pity—makes Jeremy feel like his chest is two sizes too small.

 

“Hey,” Michael’s mouth says before he notices the absence of hearing aids in his boyfriend’s ears. “Hi,” he signs, hands moving with enviable ease. “You’re out of bed.”

 

Jeremy nods. He inexplicably thinks that this must be so unattractive, him drowning in these rumpled pajamas and white-knuckling a jar of peanut butter. Even though Michael’s seen him in worse condition, he still feels a shameful urge to hide himself.

 

“That is awesome,” he signs. “Fuck yeah.”

 

Michael’s tendency to incorporate expletives wherever he can into his signed conversations typically delights Jeremy, but he can’t summon the energy to be amused right now. He mostly just feels embarrassed and irritated with himself. Avoiding eye contact, he sets down the jar and slides into his desk chair, wishing he could disassemble himself into a trillion little protein subunits.

 

A moment later, there’s a faint pressure on his left shoulder and the cherry-dark, boyish, comfort blanket smell of Michael hits him. “Hey.” 

 

Jeremy shakes his head.

 

“You’re out of bed, dude.” Even though Michael is speaking into his left ear, his voice seems distorted, unfamiliar. He knows Michael is saying the right thing because Michael always says the right thing, but he doesn’t want to listen right now, he just wants to evaporate and exist as a stormcloud for the rest of eternity. He wants to be constant, he wants to be predictable, he wants to be nourishing. 

 

“This is so fucking stupid,” Jeremy finally says, hating how hoarse and uncertain he sounds. 

 

“No.” Then Michael leans his forehead against the side of his face as he rests his chin on Jeremy’s shoulder, relishing his stability. “No, it’s not.”

 

Jeremy closes his eyes and willingly melts into the moment. He feels Michael’s breath shivering past his neck and the distant thrum of his pulse and the painless pinch of his glasses pressing into his freckled skin. Guilt blooms slowly in his chest as he senses the lingering tension of fear just beneath Michael’s skin, as if he has been holding his breath for days. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Jeremy mumbles, wishing his voice wouldn’t break so easily.

 

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” Michael adds. He presses a kiss into his hair. “You want some bread for that peanut butter? Or is it a straight from the jar kinda day?”

 

“No, yeah.” Jeremy reaches up to rub his eyes, pushing his fingertips against his eyelids until the world stops shimmering. “Yeah, bread sounds good.”

 

“Let’s get this bread, kings,” Michael says triumphantly as he pushes away to dig the bread out of the refrigerator. 

 

This time, Jeremy manages to laugh. He doesn’t care that his laugh sounds stupid when he doesn’t have his aids in or that he is still miles away from the door. For now, he’s going to have some protein and stand up and feel the carpet under his feet. For now, that’s enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> this one's pretty rough and doesn't sound as pretty as my other fics which is bad but sometimes things aren't pretty and you still gotta write about them huh


End file.
